Judgment
by Kitten Kisses
Summary: FE7. The Seven Deadly Sins and the Seven Virtues! For Sardonic Kender Smile. Kent/Lyndis. 04: Chastity, with Kent. /At one time, she had been beautiful./
1. Lust: Part I, Lyndis

**Judgment****  
By: Manna

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**…_xOx…_**

**Dedication: Sardonic Kender Smile. Happy 18****th**** Birthday (April 2****nd****, 2009)!

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**…_xOx…_**

_**Lust: Part I**_

She blushes every time she sees him, now. No matter how often she tries to chastise herself, she can't keep the tinge of red from creeping across her cheeks and tinting the edges of her ears. She tries to push away her thoughts, but it's too hard for her to do, and she has too much time on her hands, sometimes, so her mind wanders.

She tries blaming it on him. After all, he insists that she should rest and enjoy whatever time they're blessed with. An attack can happen at any time, he says. He doesn't want anyone to be unprepared. She knows he's only looking out for her as he's always done.

But time that she's not staying busy is time she has to think about him.

She knows he likes her; it's pretty obvious now, because her presence flusters him so easily. But she's certain that his thoughts are nothing like hers. She thinks the most unladylike things. If he knew, she would die from the shame.

It all started with him sparring against Sain. The sun was sinking, but there was plenty of light to see by. They were sweating, but she was only watching _him_, only Kent. It was the middle of summer and he didn't know she was there, that her eyes were riveted not to the match to see who would win, but to the way the sweat clung to his chest and arms, the way it dripped down his back and his neck. When the match ended with a victory on his part, she hardly noticed. She walked up to him and just _stared_, thinking every kind of thought that a woman should never, ever think.

How long had she loved him? Oh, a long, long time. But her thoughts hardly seemed loving to her at all, hardly seemed relevant to love or anything even remotely good. He probably doesn't think like she does, but if he knew the thoughts than had run through her head that day, he would never be able to look at her the same way again.

His hair was damp, his bangs hanging in his eyes, eyes that were startled. His face was terribly red, and she heard his lips fumble for an excuse as his hands fumbled to get his shirt.

She wanted to kiss him. No, she wanted to do _so much more_. Quickly but clumsily he had pulled his shirt back on and she had wanted to insist he take it back off. She found herself wanting to take it off for him. She wanted to kiss him absolutely senseless even though she had no idea how to go about doing such a thing, and she wanted to see him sweat, wanted to _make_ him sweat.

Her mind had worked a mile a minute, if not faster, as the image of him standing before her, sweating from his sparring match, refused to leave her mind. Normally—_normally_—she would only be proud—_so very proud_—of him for winning against Sain, and she would say so in a roundabout way that still included praise for him and his abilities. He would always blush at her words, even if only the smallest bit, and long ago he had ceased refusing the praise. She knew he liked to hear it.

It was a good thing he hadn't been able to hear her thoughts that evening as she had tossed and turned and been so distracted by him and his _body_ that she had been unable to sleep. When her eyes finally closed, she dreamed of his weight pushing down on her, crushing her in a way that she didn't mind, that made her belly and her heart feel warm. If only she could really feel that way, she remembered thinking, if only she could _feel_ his chest pressing down on hers, his hands on her cheek, her back, her waist, her hips, her legs. If only she could do the same to him, too!

She wonders how his hands might feel like, if the calluses on his fingers would lightly scratch at her breasts, her ribcage, her stomach. What might _he_ do if she gives into her desire to feel his own skin against hers? She knows it's different, _he's_ different. Harder, firmer, masculine… She wants to feel more than merely what little he's let her touch, and she wants to see more than what little he's allowed her to see.

She tries to remember back to her tribe, to the women and how they acted. How had they convinced a man to want _them_ as badly as they wanted him?

She's not quite sure, but she's a woman, as capable as any other woman, and she knows she can make him sweat as much as he had during the sparring match with Sain.

She hasn't done it. Not yet. But she knows that she can, at any given moment.

She wants to. She wants to employ every tactic she can think of to win him over, to make him _act_, because she knows—she _knows_—that he harbors feelings for her that are as strong as the feelings she harbors for him.

Her eyes are on him as he sits quietly under a tree, minding his own business, looking at the leaves above him. It's a weeping willow, and the boughs hang down low around him, almost hiding him from view. It's a beautiful scene, she thinks. He's not facing the camp, and nobody is paying him any mind. People tend to ignore him, and that upsets her.

But not her, never her. She couldn't ignore him even if she tried because he occupies every spare moment, every stray thought, every last desire and wish and hope and dream.

So she sneaks up on him, her thoughts whirling, her heart pounding. She doesn't know what she's going to do, yet, but she has to do something. She must do something.

And with the kind of grace only a woman is blessed with, she twists around and sits in his lap. He can't even move; she doesn't give him time to react. Instantly, his brown eyes widen, and she smiles at him innocently. She wants him, wants every last piece of him _now_. She knows it'd be easy to sneak away from all of the others; if they make it far enough away they can do anything they want and nobody will ever know about it. Not unless she tells. He'd never tell, and she knows she won't. It can be their little secret, she thinks.

She won't do that. She knows he's too honorable to even consider it, regardless as to whether he himself wants it or not.

But she wants to touch him, at least. Feel his skin under her fingers just to know what it's like, even if it's only for a little while. Nobody's looking and even if they were, she wouldn't care.

"L-Lady Lyndis…" His protest is weak. She knew it would be. It makes her heart twist and sink and soar all at the same time, partially from nervousness, partially from love, and partially from some of the thoughts she's having that she shouldn't be.

She leans against him, pressing her chest into his, so—_so_—glad that he's not still wearing his armor. His reaction is sharp and clear; his entire body shudders. She feels proud of herself for doing it to him. He says nothing, maybe he's scared to, and his hands stay by his side, clenching and unclenching. He's so unsure of himself; she thinks it's adorable. His eyes are on her, though, a darker brown than they were only a few minutes ago. Maybe this means that she's succeeding. She'd love nothing more than for those eyes to stay on her forever, to take her in from the top of her head to the tips of her toes.

Would he like what he saw? She thinks that he probably would, but that's for another day, another time, and a place that offers much more privacy.

She kisses the side of his jaw and works her way down to the hollow of his throat. He's so distracted that she manages to untuck his shirt. He hardly seems aware of her fingers pulling at the fabric.

"Kent," she whispers, her voice low. She wonders what he's thinking. She's never tried anything like it before; he's probably confused. Her hands find their way inside his shirt and she feels his stomach, his waist, the muscles of his back. He's tense, stiff. One of these days, she tells herself, she's going to insist on working the knots out of his back.

Her nails dig lightly into his skin; she's satisfied when he relaxes just the smallest bit, when his mouth opens slightly, wordlessly, when he swallows, and when she hears a small groan that he tries to hide.

She brings her hands back around to the front of his shirt, pressing him gently against the trunk of the tree behind him as she lets one palm rest over his heart. It's beating out a rhythm she's wanted to hear for a long, long time. She wonders if she could make it beat even faster, and immediately she knows how she could do it. She can think of a _million_ ways to make his heart pound.

She can twist in his lap so her legs are on either side of his waist, she can reach for the buckle that keeps his pants up, she can breathe into his ear, kiss his lips, his neck, his throat, his shoulders… She knows she can make him want her more than he already does; she can make him sweat, make his heart beat so hard it hurts, make him turn things around so that he takes the initiative, so that he's pushing her against the grass, his weight heavy, in a comforting sense, against her, his lips on her skin, his hands rubbing and squeezing and stroking just as hurriedly and desperately as her own.

She wants to do all of those things and more.

But she can't—she just _can't_. She can't do any of them.

Because he's trembling so badly.

So she pulls her hands out of his shirt—though not without rubbing her thumbs across his nipples, down his chest, his stomach, around his navel _just because she can_—and resists the urge to kiss him. If she kisses him, she knows she'll want so much more than that, more than he can give her at the moment, and she doesn't want to coax him into something he's not ready for, yet, something that he has misgivings about. After all, she chides herself, if he were ready and she was not, she wouldn't want him to try to convince her to give in.

She can wait. She can wait for him until he's ready, whether it's after marriage or it's before that, whether it's in Caelin or by a creek or under a tree or on the open expanse of plains that she longs to return to with him at her side. Maybe she can show him, there, show him all of her, from the tips of her toes to the top of her head.

So instead of pressing her lips against his, instead of turning to wrap her legs around his waist, she settles for nuzzling his cheek with her nose as she threads her fingers through his auburn hair.

She smiles against his skin when she notices something. His hair, not to mention the back of his neck, is damp with sweat. She knew she could do it.

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…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

This little collection is for Kender for her birthday. Something sexy for the big 18, right? I told you I would do it!

At any rate, there's more. I stole Xirysa's idea and I'm doing the seven deadly sins and the seven virtues.

Edited May 10th, 2009: Okay, this chapter went a major editing session.


	2. Lust: Part II, Kent

**Judgment****  
By: Manna

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…_**xOx…**_

_**Lust: Part II**_

It was a kiss.

One kiss.

It consisted of him bending down slightly, her straightening slightly, their lips meeting for that one, short, tiny little moment that didn't last nearly long enough. It was a simple meeting, chaste in nature, the kind they had shared a hundred times. They had gone further before, regularly, always stopping for one reason, a thousand reasons, tens of thousands of reasons.

He pulled away from that one, swift kiss—_Good night_—but he paused before he could turn and leave her there in the doorway that led to her rooms. She was peering up at him with the strangest expression on her face, her eyelashes fluttering slightly. Intentional? He didn't know, but he found himself leaning in again, his own eyes closing slightly as his lips sought hers.

It was just another kiss.

Two kisses.

It was normal for them, completely normal, almost a routine. Usually, after the second kiss, Lyndis would let him go and he would bow respectfully before going back to the barracks to get some sleep.

It was a step.

One step.

She took it, took it backward, into her receiving room, toe-to-heel, toe-to-heel. He followed, desperate for their kiss to continue, refusing to let their lips get more than a hair's width apart. He hardly realized when his hand reached for the door, pulling it closed behind him.

Another step back, toe-to-heel, and he knew where they were going. Half of him didn't care at all.

She led him through the room and to the next, toward the heavy oak door and the knob that her fingers fumbled with for a good long minute before she could manage to make it turn.

They were still kissing, only kissing. They'd done it many times before. The slow, unhurried, chaste meeting of lips wasn't new, wasn't different in any sense of the word except that they normally didn't venture into her private rooms.

The maids were gone; she hated it when they hovered, when they lurked and fussed and poked and prodded at her. So she had long ago sent them away, all of them.

He was glad for that.

They paused long enough for him to close the door to her bedchamber. He didn't bother to lock it; nobody would bother them, nobody ever dared to enter Lyndis's rooms without permission.

She continued to lead him backward until she was standing beside her bed. She reached up and around him, her hands unbuckling, unclasping hinges—_Too uncomfortable like this_—as he struggled to take his gauntlets off.

Finally, the metal encasing him fell to the floor, all of it, every last piece, and Lyn's arms went around his neck as she pulled him down to sit beside her on her bed. They continued their simple, soft kisses despite knowing what they were about to begin.

The feeling of her tongue trying to gain access to his mouth wasn't exactly new, either, but it happened considerably less often. He wouldn't deny her what she wanted; he'd give her anything she asked for if it were in his power to give. His jaw slackened, and she pushed against him in her haste to explore. It wasn't long before she had him half-lying on the bed, his feet still on the floor.

Uncomfortable, they adjusted so that only his feet hung over the edge of the bed, their lips still locked together as she leaned over him, her hands on his face, running through his hair, touching his ears, rubbing his neck. He groaned slightly, but didn't fight her advance at all. No, he liked it; it was affecting him in ways that almost embarrassed him, though he couldn't deny the fact that he enjoyed everything she was doing to him, as simple, as _normal_, as some might find her actions to be.

The only sound was the muffled speaking of names—_Kent_—_Lyndis_—that promptly found themselves lost in the mouth of the other.

Feeling a little braver, a little less shy, his tongue met hers, lightly stroking the underside. She jerked back slightly, her mouth not leaving his, but the bottom of her tongue scraping against the bottom row of his teeth before it came after him again for revenge.

She was ticklish; he hadn't realized that, before.

Suddenly, their mouths separated, and he missed her terribly for one moment that seemed to go on forever. But then she was back, and he realized that she had somehow pulled his shirt free of his pants; now it was on the floor in a crumpled heap.

Her lips met his again, once, slow and calm. Then she pulled away, kissing his jaw, his neck, even behind his ear a moment before she nibbled gently on his earlobe. His breath hitched in the back of his throat as he tried to control his breathing, control _himself_.

Clumsily, he reached up for her hair, eventually managing to free it from its ponytail; it came tumbling down her back and over her shoulders. She lifted her head long enough to shake it the rest of the way out of its clasp before she continued where she left off.

His fingers tangled in her long hair, his mouth struggling to form words that actually meant something and weren't just a strangled gasp that sounded eerily similar to her name. He pulled her closer, closer as her teeth scraped over his collarbone, as he took a sharp breath of air—_L-Lyndis…!_—at the feeling.

His heart was pounding so hard it literally hurt, but in the good kind of way, like her knee in his side as she shifted again to explore his shoulders and his chest with her hands and her mouth. When her lips trailed to his belly, he couldn't take it any longer—_P-Please, Lyn_—and she stopped before he could think to beg for mercy; his breeches were uncomfortably tight on him as it was. She knew, she had to know, and she granted him his unspoken mercy, a sly smile on her face, her green eyes dark and mischievous. She returned to his mouth, kissing him again soundly, her hands tangling in his auburn hair, twisting it at the back of his neck.

He sighed into her mouth in relief, but his mind rationalized that it wasn't fair for him to be without a shirt while she still wore two layers of clothing. Everything flipped around. He took her shoulders in his hands and pushed as he sat up, only to twist around and shove her back down onto the soft mattress.

Surprise was on her face, though she smiled, looking perfectly content to have him over her. He hadn't intended to be so rough with her, hadn't meant to be so forceful. He relaxed his grip on her shoulders, moving one hand to her face, his forefinger running from between her eyes to the tip of her nose in a feather-light touch.

She blinked slowly at him, sighing lightly, happily, murmuring his name—_Kent…_—only moments before his lips cut her off and only the insides of his mouth heard her. His teeth nibbled on her lower lip, gentle and encouraging as he used one hand to play with her hair and the other to undo the clasp to her dress. When he finally managed to accomplish his goal, he tugged down on it; she helped him by shrugging out of it, and soon the entire top of her dress was at her waist.

Pulling away from her mouth, he blinked at her shirt, at the dark material that hid _so much_ from his view. Uncertainty clouded his mind, but she took the initiative and pulled it up with her own hands, wriggling slightly to get it over her head before she tossed it off the side of the bed to land on top of his own.

She looked a little shy, her cheeks redder than his own, her eyes focused on his chest rather than his face. He took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned forward—_Oh, Lyndis_—his mouth pressing against hers hard—_You're so,_—before he started on her neck, similar in fashion to how she had treated him earlier—_So beautiful_.

She only managed to moan softly in reply as his tongue traced over the top of her collarbone and his teeth scraped against the skin where her shoulder met her neck. Her fingers went back to his head again, twisting in his auburn hair; he knew he was doing something right when he felt his hair being pulled at as her hands tightened their grip and she murmured—_Kent…_—her breath tickling his ear.

His hands moved over her shoulders, down her arms; her fingers were still buried in his hair, combing it back from his face as he came back to kiss her mouth again, missing the feeling of her warm, slightly-swollen lips against his. He returned them to their simple, chaste kisses in an attempt to slow his heart down, to slow _them_ down.

But her hands wrapped around his back, her nails digging into his skin, making him groan loudly against her mouth. He couldn't decide what to do with his own hands, moving them from her face to her hair and back down to her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing over her bare skin as if he were trying to memorize the way it felt against his own.

It wasn't long before he felt a little braver, a little surer of himself, and let his fingers trace the curves down the side of her body. Outward, around the swell of her breasts, and inward again until he got to her hips. Maybe it was best that her dress was still covering her lower half.

He moved positions, hesitating before he swung one leg over both of hers so that he was directly above her. His hands moved down her sides again, petting her skin, occasionally finding a lock of hair in the way that he twirled around his thumb and forefinger before gently laying it aside.

She squirmed a little, her legs splayed out haphazardly between his, her face flushed and her eyes bright. Slowly, he raised a hand to one of her breasts, gently cupping the underside of it in his hand as he looked at her, silently requesting permission.

She didn't answer right away; pulling his head down to hers, she kissed him gently and ran her fingers through his hair again, nails scraping his scalp. She touched his face, nuzzled his neck—_It's okay, Kent_—and smiled at him. Smiled that _I-want-more_ smile, that hazy-eyed, almost glazed over _in-the-heat-of-the-moment_ smile.

He knew that he should stop, that he should stop _immediately_ because what he was doing was wrong, wrong in so many ways. But she traced the skin around his eyes with the tip of one of her fingers, down the side of his nose, and around his mouth, down toward his chin.

Vaguely, he wondered, as his hand squeezed her soft skin gently, as his thumb ran over her nipples, if his hands were too rough, too calloused; he hoped that he wasn't hurting her, but when he spared a glance at her face, her eyes were mostly closed and her mouth open as she struggled to catch her breath.

Smiling the smallest bit, proud of what he could do to her—_K-Kent… Kent!_—he gave in to the urge he had to taste the warm skin of her breasts; her nipples were the color of a good, red, wine, and he wanted nothing more than to know if they felt the same against his tongue.

She trembled as his lips met one of her hardened peaks, a startled mix of a gasp and a moan—_K-Kent…!_—leaving the back of her throat as her fingers slackened in his hair, falling to his shoulders to grip them so tight it almost hurt. He heard her take in a breath, struggling to force air into her lungs; it only encouraged him more, and he let his tongue run over her nipple once, twice, before he gently nibbled on it with his teeth. She moaned loudly—_Kennnttt…_—at the feeling, and dug her nails into the muscles of his shoulders.

He moved to her other breast, his hands switching to the one he had just left to balance the attention he was giving to both of them evenly. Eliciting the same response from his lady—_Kent… Kennntttt!_—he felt his heart swell up with something akin to pride.

He had done it to her, had made her want him. Lifting his head slightly, he placed a kiss directly in the center of her chest, and one over her heart; he could feel the erratic beats beneath his lips.

His hands roamed over her ribs, and down to her belly, rubbing her smooth skin as gently as he could manage, considering the hard calluses on the pads of his fingers. She didn't seem to care, her mouth opening and closing, half words and phrases tumbling out at random as he explored—_K-Kent_—_Mmm_—_A-ah…!_—_I want_—and all it took as a flick of his tongue to cut her off, make her change what she was trying to say.

He lifted his torso, pulling his arms around beneath her to lift her up and move her so that her head was cushioned by one of her pillows. She continued to pant, a half-smile on her face as her hands reached for his pants, fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt before she managed to undo it and slide it off of him. It landed on their shirts, a light clatter as the pieces of metal struck something—perhaps her nightstand.

When it hit the floor, it was a scramble to pull what clothes remained on them, off. He tugged on her dress and she pulled at his pants; after a few, awkward minutes of wriggling and helping one another out, they found themselves naked in front of the other.

His breath hitched in his throat at the sight of her, completely bare beneath him. He stroked her hips and the outside of her thighs before he leaned in, his voice hoarse and whispery against her lips—_Oh, Lyndis… You… You're so, so beautiful_—before he gave her one more of those simple, chaste kisses.

One kiss.

One more kiss.

They always kissed each other at every opportunity. Perhaps it was a side effect of being desperately in love with one another and unable to find alone time often enough to satisfy either of them. But for all of their kisses, for all of their meetings of lips in the darkened halls and beneath the moon, this one was like none of the others.

He knew it was different because his knee was pushing her legs apart, legs that wrapped around his waist with natural feminine grace. Normally, when their lips met one another, she wasn't nearly in tears as she begged for him—_Kent, Kent please… Please, I can't_—she wasn't trembling with anxiety and nervousness and desire, she wasn't—_I've never done this before, b-but_—and he wasn't—_I… I haven't either_—and they both didn't decide on their own that they could figure it out together.

No, normally it was a kiss, just a kiss, and that was it.

But this, this was so much more. A step both of them wanted to take, a step that had a million repercussions should anyone else find out about it, a step that they both felt ready for…

He stroked the side of her face, gently, his fingertips skimming across her eyes—_Are you certain?_—and she nodded wordlessly to his whispered, urgent words. Then he kissed her again, a kiss that surely told her how much he loved and wanted her.

And for a long time, the only word that either of them heard was their own name—whispered, moaned, gasped—from the mouth of their partner.

…_**xOx…**_

He opened his eyes to find the morning light sifting through the spaces in the draperies that covered the wide windows in Lyndis's bedroom. A shaft of it fell across the bed, and he sighed and tried to bury himself deeper under the blankets, finding it impossible with the way Lyn's legs and the sheets—the only blanket covering them—were tangled with his own.

After a few moments, he gave up trying to get back to sleep and leaned on one elbow as he glanced down at the woman he loved more than anything in the world. They'd spent a long time in one another's presence, and had fallen in love somewhere between the moment they laid eyes on each other and the instant the Dragon's Gate had been sealed.

Using his free hand, he pushed her hair back from her face, his fingertips brushing against her ear, making her shiver slightly. Slowly, her eyes opened, and she smiled at him sleepily, innocently, "Good morning."

"That it is," he murmured, leaning in to kiss her chastely as his hand rubbed her bare back.

It was a kiss.

One kiss.

But she didn't respond to it. Confused, and slightly startled, he pulled back to ask her what was wrong—_Lyndis, what's_—but he never finished his sentence. A strangled gasp escaped his throat as he jumped away from her. The sheet covering her chest fell to her waist at his movement, exposing her bare skin to him.

But his eyes were on her face. On the blank stare in her eyes, on the dark, swollen bruises that were scattered across her cheeks, her jaw—even her ears! They continued down her throat, across her collarbones, her shoulders, her arms…

Her hips and stomach were black and blue, her breasts nearly purple, her soft skin puffy and…and…

"L-Lyn?" he asked, his entire body trembling so hard he thought that he might lose consciousness at any moment. His heart was in his throat, his hand reaching out for her, for the one small patch of skin on her forearm that wasn't warped by discoloring. The moment his finger touched her skin, it, too, changed, darkened, reddened. She didn't move at all; her eyes only stared unseeingly at the ceiling of her bedroom.

Suddenly, he couldn't remember half of what he had done to her. Had they made love, or had he only touched her, squeezed her, _hurt_ her?

He struggled to think, to recall the events of the night before, but the moment he remembered that first kiss—_Good night_—he fell to the mattress without so much as a sound escaping his lips.

…_**xOx…**_

He awoke with a start, a violent, painful feeling in his chest as he jerked awake. The first thing he saw was brown. A blanket. And then green, a rich, dark, familiar shade that reminded him of the leaves of a—

"Lyndis!" he gasped before realizing his surroundings. He was in a small room, modestly furnished with only a bed and a crudely made bureau. He was not in Caelin, nor had he been there for many, many months… "M-Milady," he corrected himself, startled to remember how _easily_ he had used her name, just her name.

His face flushed terribly, but his heart still alternated between pounding and aching.

She smiled at him, an innocent smile, nothing like the gaze she had turned on him in…in…

_A dream_, he thought, simultaneously relieved and horrified at the same time. Then it came back to him. Lady Lyndis had fallen ill, and he stayed behind with her to ensure that she rested until she was better. They were to catch up with the others only after her fever fled.

"I was watching you sleep," she said quietly, her voice hoarse thanks to her sore throat.

If the ground could swallow him up, he would have gladly allowed it to. His face flushed in shame, embarrassment, even humiliation. According to Sain, who had shared the same room with him for years, sometimes he would sleep soundly, quietly, no matter what he was dreaming of, and other times he would mumble to himself, tossing, turning, and kicking up a general fuss.

"I-I… Forgive me, my lady."

She smiled wider, one of her hands pushing some of her hair out of her eyes; her fingers were trembling, and it did not escape his notice. "No," she assured him. "It was interesting."

_I-Interesting?_ He shuddered, worried. "H-How so, Lady Lyndis?"

Truth be told, he didn't want to know. If she knew—if she knew _at all_—he'd rather save himself the embarrassment of hearing her repeat it to him. How had he managed to dream something like…like that? In the name of the good Saint, he hadn't even told her anything about how he felt toward her, or—

"Oh," she wiggled her toes under her blanket and slid down so that she was completely covered, her eyes suddenly looking very tired. "There for a while, you had this…almost-smile on your face." She yawned. "But then you looked…frightened, maybe." She paused, as if to make sure he wouldn't take offense to her words, before continuing, "I was going to try to wake you up when you snapped out of it."

He nodded, blinking, as she tucked her chin in close to her chest and covered her mouth with her hands, coughing loudly for a while. "I will find you something to eat," he told her before leaving. He didn't even wait for a response; it was most unlike him, he knew, but he had to get out of there to clear his head.

Once outside, he took a seat on a bench beside a towering maple and lowered his head to his hands. His liege had been ill, sick enough to need several days to recover, and he had fallen asleep at her side and then dreamed of her.

He felt disgust well up in the pit of his stomach as he recalled the dream. She was hurting, and there he had been, dreaming of…of… He almost gagged, his face burning in shame.

He loved her. He loved her a lot. And she was, indeed, very beautiful, physically as well as in every other aspect. He was a man like any other… It was something he could not escape from, but he tried very hard to keep those thoughts at bay, refusing to let them preside over anything that was more important, including her station and his place at her side as a vassal, a servant…and _nothing more_.

His eyes squeezed shut as the image of her covered in bruises—bruises wherever his hands had touched her—everywhere—_everywhere_—and he felt a shudder work its way down the length of his spine.

He would never, _ever_ hurt her like that, not intentionally, not…_not ever_.

But it was just a dream, a stupid, selfish, sickening dream that he hadn't asked to have. No, his mind had conjured it up and…

But he remembered wanting her, wanting to touch her, to _take her_—oh, Elimine! What was wrong with him?

He shook for a few moments, but finally, his heart calmed down, stopped racing, and he murmured to himself, "Just a dream…"

But it had been so real, had felt real… and he had been lying on top of her, his hands and fingers squeezing and kneading and stroking her skin, skin that she normally had covered by her clothes. Clothes that he had taken off of her, himself!

"Just…a dream…"

Yes, yes…a dream.

He nodded to himself, his heart rate nearly normal by then, and went in search of food for his liege; she was probably hungry and thirsty, and he had promised to return with what she needed. The entire walk to fetch her something to eat, and the trip up the stairs to her room, seemed to last an eternity. He kept repeating to himself that he had only had a dream, nothing more. It didn't mean anything else. It didn't mean that if he kissed her, something terrible would happen.

"Lady Lyndis, I apologi—"

She was lying on her side, arm under the hard pillow, her other hand fisted near her chest. The blanket had fallen down a little. He reached over and pulled it up, over her shoulders and under her chin. Her face was still flushed with fever, and he set the soup he had managed to find on the bureau by her bed so that she could eat when she awoke.

He took a seat in the chair he had occupied sooner, and watched her while she slept. She didn't move except for the occasional twitch of her hands or her eyes. Perhaps she was having fever dreams, he thought.

Dreams that were most likely _nothing_ like his own, he was sure.

It was then that he noticed a strand of her hair that was hanging off the edge of the bed, and automatically, without thinking, he reached for it. It was soft, long. _Beautiful_. Like it had been spread out over the pillows of her bed in Caelin. Sighing, he put it back where it belonged, behind her head, and glanced down at her lips. They were parted slightly, and each breath she took was harsh, almost grating, as if she was struggling to pull air into her lungs.

He wanted to kiss her. Like in his dream. That one kiss. The first one. One pure, chaste kiss, his lips meeting hers for a single, brief moment before he would pull away. He wouldn't give her another…would he? No, he was stronger than that, he reasoned to himself. He was stronger. He could stop, he could take his lips off of hers and he could step away.

But she didn't even know that he loved her. She probably didn't have the smallest clue; he always covered it up, tried to hide it. He wasn't ashamed of his love for her—she deserved all the love in the world, after all—but he knew it wouldn't work, couldn't….couldn't work. And he was afraid to say anything, fearful of asking her to let him try to make it work. Because what would happen, then?

Everything would be so uncertain, so…_different_.

Different, like the last kiss he remembered from his dream. It only appeared innocent on the surface, but he knew it had been anything but. It couldn't be innocent, not with the way her legs had been wrapped around his waist, and he had felt every curve of her body as he crushed her to him.

Sighing, he sat back down. Perhaps there wasn't anything wrong with loving her, with wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of his life in her presence… But surely—_surely_—there was something terribly wrong with what he had dreamed. Wasn't there?

It was only a dream, after all.

His touch had hurt her, bruised her, _killed her_.

But wait. No, no… Maybe…maybe that was his mind, his conscience, telling him to stop. Telling him to wake up. Telling him that everything was wrong, that it wasn't real, that he needed to return to his usual, normal self.

Leaning forward, he stared at her hand, the one fisted by her chest. She shifted, groaning slightly, and when she settled again with the faintest of sighs, her hand was lying flat on the blanket beside her.

Everywhere he had touched her, she had bruised.

That was ridiculous, he told himself, absolutely ridiculous. It would never, ever happen in the real world.

Tentatively, though, he reached out and touched the back of her hand.

She didn't move. He watched it, stared at it, but nothing happened, nothing changed.

Relieved, despite knowing how ridiculous the idea of her hand actually bruising from so light a touch was, he allowed himself the smallest of smiles. His hand touched hers again, grasping it gently before he pulled it up, up to his lips, and softly pressed a kiss against the back of it.

It was a kiss.

One kiss.

And that was it.

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:  
**

**  
**This was…without a doubt, the most difficult piece of writing I have ever written in my entire life. But hurrah! For the first M-worthy Kent/Lyn material on this site!

I hope this bothered no one, but I did label it with a warning. Anyway, I've had this idea for a while. While there is no doubt in my mind that Kent, like any other man in the world, dreams about sex now and again, there is also no doubt in my mind that he is far more susceptible to nightmares. So I thought…what about a happy dream turned nightmare? It happens.

Feedback is very, very much appreciated. I've written things almost as hard as this, but never for this fandom. Take care, everyone!


	3. Chastity: Part I, Lyndis

**Judgment****  
By: Manna

* * *

**

**…_xOx…_**

_**Chastity: Part I**_

Nobody saw it coming.

The attack came out of nowhere. A group of bandits, bigger and better-trained than any Lyn had ever seen, thought they would overtake a group of people and a few wagons of supplies. Several hours passed before the last of the scum met their demise on the end of someone's weapon.

The rag-tag army emerged victorious, with minor injuries. They marched for several more miles before stopping; they had to get away from the corpses of the men they had slain. Eliwood wanted to bury them; Lyndis refused to help, and Hector, for the first time in weeks, agreed with her instead of his old friend.

Evening came, and dinner was served. A terrible dinner it was, but food was food, and nobody had the right or the energy to complain about its tastelessness.

Lyn prodded gently at her temple as she zigzagged her way around the camp. She had been grazed by something—perhaps an arrow or a sword—sometime during the fight. It didn't seem to want to stop bleeding. Suddenly, she came across Serra and Rebecca. She paused, crouching down to wipe the blood from her hands onto the grass; she couldn't help but overhear the two girls as they talked.

Maybe she exploded because Nino was close to them and could hear everything they said. Maybe there was more to it than just that.

"Really?" Serra was asking, eyes wide, hand to her mouth. "One of those filthy bandits tried to… to cop a feel during the fight?"

"Yeah, he did." The archer flipped her pigtails behind her shoulders and snorted, turning her nose up. "But I showed him!"

Giggling, the thin cleric shook her head, nodding knowingly, "He probably couldn't help himself… You were just so pretty that he had t—"

"Don't you dare…!" Lyn stood, so angry that she could hardly think straight. She took the few steps that separated her from Serra, and she pressed her forefinger right into the middle of the other girl's sternum, the blood on her hands staining her white dress. "Don't you dare give him any excuses! Don't you _dare_!"

With every word, she pushed harder until Serra was on the ground. Only afterward did she turn to Rebecca, not touching her, but glaring at her so fiercely that the other girl wondered what in the world either of them had done wrong.

Her voice came out in a hiss, hardly understandable to the others, "There is _no_ excuse for what that man tried to do, _no excuse at all_! How can either of you make light of it?! What if you had been alone and he had overpowered you? Would you be making light of that situation, now, in front of Nino? Would you even have the courage to admit that it had happened?" A long, frustrated sigh left her lips as Rebecca merely stared.

Serra stayed where she was, indignant but not stupid enough to stand back up, yet.

Lyndis turned back to her, "Beauty had nothing to do with it." She started to calm down, started to lose what precious little energy she'd had to begin with. "He just wanted to use and hurt a woman. He could care less as to what she looked like."

With that, she turned on her heel and left. Half of the army had gathered to gape at her, to watch her yell at Serra and Rebecca. They all thought she was crazy, she knew, and most of them would forget about it sooner rather than later. She was, perhaps, relieved to know it.

The horses were all tethered by the river, and she joined them, hands swishing in the cold water to try and clean the blood off her hands and face. Blood continued to slide down the side of her head. She might have been grateful for it, but it didn't distract her from the way she had snapped at the other girls.

Finally, she gave up and sat next to one of the trees that grew by the water. "I was too harsh," she whispered to herself, pulling her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her legs.

"Lady Lyndis?" His voice was hesitant.

"Hello, Kent." She turned her head slightly to look at him, seeing exactly what she knew she would: concern.

He took a few steps closer, looking strangely odd without his armor on. "Milady, are you okay? You did not act your usual self at—"

"I wasn't going to let them make light of that!" Then, quieter, she looked away, patting the ground next to her, "Sit down, please."

He obliged, though she had no way of knowing if he did so because he wanted to or because she had asked him to. Kent was one of the best people that she had ever known. He had been there almost from the beginning, and sometimes she wondered if he cared for her more than he would admit. There were little things that he did…

She was so lost in her swirling thoughts that she jumped when he pressed his handkerchief against the side of her head. _Little things_, she thought, a ghost of a smile flickering across her lips before she thanked him quietly.

They had a special kind of friendship, one of quiet understanding and mutual respect. They knew a lot about each other, but not nearly enough, and Lyn predicted that they would remain friends for a while longer, until one of them found the courage to ask the other if they could become something…more.

"How long has this been bleeding?"

She shrugged as he continued to press the cloth against her skin. "It isn't important," she said.

"I was worried, milady."

She could only imagine that he had been, considering he had been the only one to follow her. "I must have looked like a lunatic."

"I wouldn't say that." He smiled, just a little bit, but it left as quickly as it had come.

She knew that he wanted to ask what Serra and Rebecca might have done to deserve her wrath, but… He said nothing, choosing to stay silent as he brushed her bangs away from the cut that made its way across her temple.

Sighing, she closed her eyes. "Rebecca told Serra that someone tried to…touch her…during the battle."

She could feel him stiffen beside her, "Someone…on our side?"

"No, no… I would have killed them already, myself, if that were the case."

"It…happens."

"I know. That doesn't make it right." She turned her head to look at him, and his hands left her temple, fingers clutching the bloodied handkerchief tightly. "Serra said that it was because Rebecca was so pretty that the man tried to touch her."

He nodded, but said nothing.

"Nino was standing right there… I know she's no child, Kent, but what if someone tried to do that to her? Would she spend the rest of her life thinking that it was her fault for being pretty, for making men want her?"

"I understand."

"Do you?" She turned her head again, resting her chin on her knees as she watched Sain's horse crop at the grass.

A long moment of silence passed between them, and he pressed the handkerchief against the side of her head again, his touch careful, gentle. "I…understand your concern. Though, milady, if I may say… I doubt that Jaffar will leave her side long enough for anything to happen."

She smiled, though it was sad. "And _you're_ always with _me_, Kent…but that does not mean that something could never happen."

He seemed to pause at her words, one of his fingers brushing against her ear. "Lady Lyndis," he said, his voice earnest, "I would never let something like that happen to you."

She didn't look at him, but one of her hands unwound itself from her legs and patted his knee before returning to its position, and she smiled gratefully, though there was a sadness behind it that she couldn't hide. Her silence was, perhaps, a response that he had not expected, nor one that he had wanted to hear.

When she blinked, he was kneeling in front of her, his hand still pressed to her temple, but his brown eyes looked at her, filled with troubled concern. "It…" He swallowed, and she felt his hand begin to tremble just the smallest bit. "It already did," he whispered slowly, regretfully, as if it pained him to speak such a thing.

She watched him for a moment, not saying anything, but suddenly she lowered her eyes, choosing to stare at his boots, instead. "You didn't think that the Taliver would destroy my people and _waste_—" she spat out the word, "—the women, did you?" She exhaled, her breath uneven, "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."

A lot of people knew that her tribe was dead. Wil, though, hadn't known until very recently, when he had heard it from someone else. She wondered who had informed him, and she would almost bet that it had been Kent.

Either way, she had known Wil for a long time, almost as long as Kent and Sain. She had never mentioned her tribe's demise to him, nor the deaths of her parents. Maybe it wasn't healthy of her to keep everything to herself, but she didn't need the pity. And really, what made her so special, anyway? Others had lost their families, their friends… It wasn't as if she was the only one.

She had seen a lot of terrible things on the day the Lorca met their end. She had seen people crumple from the poison, had seen swords brutally shoved through bodies, had seen babies and little children skewered, thrown, smashed against things and trampled by horses that the Taliver had stolen from her people.

Sometimes, before her tribe's destruction, one of the boys would dare a friend to touch one of the girls. It was a silly game, perhaps a little lewd and no doubt inappropriate. She had been weaving with a friend, once, when a young man their age ran up, patted her friend's backside, and then ran away.

Her friend had shouted after the lad, but sat down smiling, confessing moments later that they were planning to be joined together as husband and wife, soon; he only had to ask her parents for their permission.

The way the Taliver had touched her friend, though, was different. They were hungry, bloodthirsty. They had killed her young husband and her newborn son. She'd never be able to forget the way her friend had protested at the invasive hands, at the loss of her clothes…

She'd never forget the way the girl had screamed, had cried and begged and pleaded.

And she would never be able to erase the image or the sound of the man's axe as it sliced through flesh and bone; he had finished with her, and her purpose had ended.

It wasn't long before he noticed her standing there, before he grinned at her shaking legs and trembling hands.

She ran.

No other time before or after that day had she run so fast or with as much desperation. Her life—no, more than that—depended on it, after all.

She ran straight into another man, bigger than the last; it took him no effort at all to take her by the shoulders.

She hadn't been able to move, had hardly been thinking straight. She wanted to get away, but how could she when she felt so heavy? She tried to kick at him, but her foot only barely moved. She was losing strength with every breath, and she wondered, foggily, if she could still stand up if the man let her go.

Kent bit his lower lip, his eyes uncertain as he watched her, taking in every expression that crossed her face as she remembered that day. She hardly even knew that he was still there, and might have forgotten completely if he hadn't turned the handkerchief over, patting at her still-bleeding cut.

The man told her that she looked different than the others, prettier, perhaps, because she didn't appear to be quite as savage. He said that he was glad. And he smiled, two rows of perfect teeth. He was clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed and tied back. She wondered why he was with the Taliver at all. He looked nothing like the others.

But then she found her back against one of the gers, and she _knew_.

She struggled, but she hardly had any strength left, and certainly not enough to fight him. His hands slid up the slits on the sides of her skirts, pulling the entire thing up with him as his fingers wrapped around the back of her legs, squeezing and rubbing at her skin. He didn't care if he hurt her; he lifted her off of the ground, wedging his knee in between her legs before settling her on it. His fingers were rough, but not in the calloused sort of way. No, he lifted the front of her dress and let his hands knead and pinch at her breasts. Everything he did hurt, and she might have cried, but if she did, it didn't affect him. When she struggled, he only hurt her more, pulling her back into place by her hair or even her breasts, if that was where his hands happened to be at the time.

Suddenly, awareness flashed across her mind as she felt a gentle touch on her elbow. She was crying, now, though silently and with only a few tears. Perhaps remembering was simply too much for her. Slowly, she let her eyes meet Kent's, and he took his hand back, looking apologetic. He hadn't meant to startle her, she realized.

Slowly, she relaxed, tried to smile for him, and let her arms fall to her sides as she got to her knees and leaned against him, her forehead pressing against his shoulder. He didn't touch her. Perhaps he was afraid to.

The man had eventually thrown her to the ground after one too many tries at escape, and his mouth had explored, his teeth biting at her breasts so hard that it made her shudder with pain.

He tried to tell her that she wanted him; he could tell because her nipples were hard.

His knee had wedged between her legs, again, pressing against the inside of her thighs as he used one of his hands to pry them apart. He said that he was almost done with her, that he would kill her afterward to save her from a life of shame.

The words scarcely left his mouth before a horse, one that belonged to a friend of her father's, galloped by, fear making the whites of its eyes show. It leapt over them, treating them as if they were a hedge or a bush.

Its back hooves clipped the man's head, and he fell on top of her. She remembered the relief that had coursed through her to find that he was not breathing.

It took a lot of effort to get out from under him, to pull her dress and shirt back down over her body.

Lyn blinked, slowly, and let her eyes close. "It's okay," she whispered, her palms flat against Kent's chest. She could feel the heavy thudding of his heart and his slightly harsh breathing, but he seemed to calm down when her thumbs lightly stroked the fabric of his shirt. "It's okay," she kept saying. She reached in front of her, took both his hands in hers, and pulled them around behind her before speaking softly, "He didn't take me."

At her words, his arms wrapped the rest of the way around her, holding her carefully, gently, as if she were fragile and might break if he held her too tight.

Kent seemed to understand all of the things that she didn't have to say. It could have been worse, much worse.

Some of the Taliver had made the women do sexual favors for them, killing them as soon as they were satisfied.

She had been lucky. Surely it was luck that sent the horse flying down that little space between those two gers. A space not wide enough for it to pass; if it had, her legs or head might have been trampled. But no, the horse had been forced to jump, and because she was lying on the ground, she had been spared the impact of its hooves.

She hugged Kent a little closer to her, and felt the weight of his head lightly resting against hers. "I'm sorry to ask this," she said softly, her breath warm even through his shirt, "but will you please not mention this to anyone?"

"I will never speak of it to anyone." Then, after a long moment of silence, "Something like that will not happen to you again."

She pushed against him, gently, and he let her go. "There is always the chance that it could h—"

The light touch of his hand against her jaw silenced her, and she looked into his brown eyes; the earnestness that she saw there was not new to her, but the words that he spoke nearly made her burst into tears, and that…was something new.

"I shall _die_, first."

* * *

…_**xOx…**_

**Author Notes:**

Touchy subject matter, to be sure. But as mentioned in E (Chapter Five) of "_Arpeggio_", I firmly believe that this type of thing is very plausible. It's sad, of course, but realistic, I think. Anyway, this was more friendshippy than anything, but I think that Lyndis and Kent need a firmly-grounded friendship before a romantic relationship can be established, anyway. Kent and Lyn are close at this point (I hope it's obvious, but sometimes I don't make things obvious enough), and it's hinted that they love one another, but neither of them is willing, yet, to take the leap to turn that close friendship into something more.

I think Lyn is only easily trusting on the surface. There is a lot she doesn't tell people, and this is shown by the fact that Wil, who was in Caelin for a year with her, didn't know about her parents. And by not telling anyone the extent of what happened, I think perhaps she would feel alone, even with all of the people she cares about around her.

Take care, everyone, and please leave feedback if you have the time.


	4. Chastity: Part II, Kent

**Judgment  
By: Manna**

**

* * *

**

**…-…-…**

**Chastity, Part II: Kent**

The frailty of the human body was astounding even to Kent, who had seen more than his fair share of years and still found himself surprised when something new began to ache. Perhaps, he thought, to make up for a fragile outer shell, a human heart—and maybe also the hearts of dragons—had the strength of a hundred warriors.

At one time, she had been beautiful.

She still was, though not for all the same reasons. Her long hair had first streaked with silver—he remembered her expression when she saw herself in a mirror for the first time in ten years—and as more time passed, it had lost all its color, turning the shade of the snow that fell in Ilia.

His own hair had lost its resplendence and was now a dull grey—something that Lyndis had said made him look, _"What is the word? Distinguished?_" She had stumbled over the word and he had laughed.

He sighed softly to himself as he tugged a comb through her hair. It was still long, as she refused to cut it. The teeth of the comb snagged on little knots and tangles as he pulled it through, and he worked gently with his fingertips to right them again.

Physically, they had both changed, but it was not something that was unexpected. Time had a tendency to do such things, and both of them knew it, but that hadn't made it any easier to accept.

It was easier to accept Lyndis's aging than his own.

But they were well past the beginning stages of "aging", and even though he had lost much of his sight and her hands shook and rattled and wouldn't even let her hold a spoon, they had one another.

How many years, now, had they been on the plains of Sacae? They'd fought to protect an ungrateful world, and years later watched a war raze the same world they'd worked so hard to save.

Loved ones had died in that war, among them their own son, still just a toddler. Both of them had known all along that war, of all things, did not discriminate based on age or gender.

Despite everything, the sun still rose and set, and time marched on like the armored feet of knights off to battle, a steady rhythm that never slowed or stopped.

Sain had always talked about love as if it was something magical—and it was—_it was_—but magic was a relative term, and the real magic, if it could be called that, was having someone that would stick by you no matter what, would love you despite your quirks and faults, would care about you even when you made them angry, and would look at you, ten, twenty, _fifty_ years later and look past the wrinkles and the bad knee, the thinning hair and the saggy breasts, and see…you.

Carefully, Kent gathered his wife's hair in his hands, and in the low light of evening, began to clumsily braid it. He'd never gotten very good at it, and his eyesight, though still intact, did not care to show him the things that were right in front of him.

After tying the long braid off with a leather tie, he let it coil behind her. Her face was relaxed and peaceful in sleep—sleep that was, more often than not, still plagued with memories of the past. Sometimes she awoke with tears trickling down her weathered face, crying for her son, for Florina, for her father. On those nights, his arms always found their way around her, and she would cling to him as if he was all that she had left in the world.

Her skin was, to his relief, dry, and his calloused fingers outlined the curve of her face. The slope was different than it had been forty years ago, but he hardly noticed the difference. Everything about her he had committed to memory. Absolutely everything.

Her hand was bony as he took it in his own, and he pressed the back of it against his lips. He could remember doing the same motion a million times in the past—probably more. Nothing had changed, he thought, nothing at all. He was still Kent, and she Lyndis.

He watched her sleep, though with his eyesight he could not see her very well.

When she woke, it was slow, unhurried, and she sat up with a struggle, pulling her hand back against her chest.

Her eyes were confused, and as she looked around herself, at the once-sturdy structure they had lived in for the past seventeen years, tears formed in her eyes and slowly began to fall.

"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice trembling, though not near as much as her hands.

His heart ached. "A friend," he forced himself to say calmly. "A friend."

Lyndis swallowed hard and blinked back tears. From what he could make out of her expression, she wasn't sure that he was being truthful.

"We are good friends," he tried again, softly, his voice as reassuring as he could make it. "Don't you remember?"

"Remember? No—" she blinked, and then hesitated, "I…"

"Caelin," he prompted, his hand slowly reaching for her. The distance seemed eternal.

"Caelin…" she echoed.

"Lord Hausen…" When her expression blanked, he tried again, "Rolling hills and trees."

She let him touch her. "There was…a hill…"

"That's right," he said. "You went there every day."

"You were there?" she asked. She sounded a bit more certain.

"Sometimes," he said. "Other times Florina went with you…"

"Florina…" She sounded so very, very far away, but in her eyes, he saw a sudden spark of recognition, and she let him take her hand. He knew her mind was struggling to make connections. "Kent?" she finally asked after a long moment of silence. Her fingers were trembling. "Kent?"

"Yes," he said, tears pricking at his own eyes. Each time she forgot it was harder and harder on him. "Yes, it is I."

She murmured his name again as he wrapped his arms around her and held her with practiced gentleness. "Where were you?" she asked. "I was so lost."

"I'm with you always." Long ago, she had asked him to stay with her always…and he had never wanted anything else.

"I couldn't find you," she whispered. "I looked and looked, but I couldn't find you." She let her head rest against his chest and closed her eyes. "Were you hiding?"

He took one of their blankets and wrapped it around the both of them before pressing his lips against the top of her snow-white hair. "I came as fast as I could," he said, letting his eyes moisten. "I came as fast as I could."

* * *

**…-…-…**

**Author Notes:**

Whoa, depressing stuff in my M-rated collection? (What is this madness?) Despite Kent being a man, and despite the earlier chapters, I do feel that Kent, if anyone, is a rather "chaste" kind of person. As Qieru once pointed out, the way he shows love is likely not through mostly physically showing it via physical intimacy, or even by simply showing it via verbal communication, but instead, through _acts of service_. As I pondered on that idea, I immediately pictured Kent and Lyndis as an older couple. Nothing is as chaste and beautiful as what I call "Old People Love". They aren't in relationships for the epic sex, or because their partner is "hot". They're in it for the reason people should be in love—because they love one another! And carrying on Kent's "acts of service" approach to love, I began this story.

This was inspired partly by my own (now deceased) grandmother, by the book/movie _The Notebook_, Sardonic Kender Smile's own grandparents (whom she's told me about)…and last but not least, a scene from _Big Fish_.


End file.
